


Wintertime

by JaneHudson



Series: Petrae Venetiarum: A Tetralogy [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Sansa, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Outdoor Sex, Petyr and Sansa living the luxurious life, Petyr's on it, Porn With Plot, Sansa is still repressed, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-11-12 03:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18002951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneHudson/pseuds/JaneHudson
Summary: Sansa Stark is quite shocked when she meets a man--who bears more than a passing resemblance to a mysterious stranger from her fantasies--who promises to show her ALL the pleasures of Venice. She must balance both excitement and terror when she realizes that dear Petyr is not not nearly as tame in the real world as he is in her mind.Ch. 2: Petyr takes Sansa to his apartment, and he is determined to bring out the beast within.





	1. The Noose of Courtesy

As soon as the waiter set the plate in front of her, Sansa knew she’d made a mistake. This was not homemade pasta. She didn’t even have to try it: all it took was a glance to know the pasta would be heavy and gluey, and the sauce would taste of too much basil and sweetness.

But, she smiled politely and told the waiter it looked quite fine. There was never any question that she would. Sansa Stark was an unfailingly polite woman.

She’d used politeness as a shield all her life, but, as she’d gotten older, she’d discovered she could use a particularly deferential form of politeness to take advantage of the world’s general discomfort with and uncertainty about _les femmes d’un certain âge._ The truth of the thing was that people would do anything to avoid acknowledging a woman who was a little too meek and a little too grateful for even the most basic human courtesy, especially if she had a few lines around her eyes. People were positively desperate to overlook such a woman, and, while that had obvious costs, it also allowed such a woman to move through the world almost as if she was unseen, which was how Sansa liked it.

The problem was that even one crack in the façade of meek politeness would destroy the whole illusion. So, sometimes you had to deal with disappointing pasta.

Marg had told her to be careful about canal-side restaurants. She should have listened.

She pushed the pasta around with her fork and stared into the canal. Light from the restaurant’s lamps pooled and divided on the surface, providing no insight into the depths. She could not stop thoughts of the handsome, steel-haired stranger from intruding. She had dismissed him from her mind as a mere fancy of flight, and, although he had tried to fight his way back in for nearly two days, she had held him off.

But now she was wishing she could dance across the surface of the water with him, twirling and graceful.

She forced herself to look back down at her plate (of course she was going to eat it—she wasn’t rude), and she readied herself for the first bite: it wouldn’t be pleasant, but it would only get worse if she let it get stone cold.

Unfortunately, the handsome stranger had completely overcome her mental blocks. He was no longer waiting on the water for her; he was walking up the fondamenta, almost like he was coming to save her from this mediocrity. She couldn’t help but smile at him as though he was really there. She found it rather odd that he didn’t seem to see her, but that made it easier for her to stare.

As he got closer, Sansa felt her chest tighten and her face warm up. Why couldn’t she control him anymore? He kept on getting closer and the sound of his shoes echoing off the street sounded so real, but she only liked this stranger when she could control him.

He was walking past her and she couldn’t help but turn her head to watch him go. She didn’t understand. She was relieved. She was destroyed. She was—

Locking eyes with him.

Sansa Stark had been looked at by a lot of men in a lot of ways, but she couldn’t recall any man ever looking at her quite like this. His lips were turned up in an expression of total surprise, as though he had just realized it had been his life’s mission to find her sitting in a chair next to this little canal. His eyes were full of covetousness, but it was different from the rapacity she had seen in so many other eyes: there was vulnerability mixed with the dangerousness.

He was somehow older than he’d been in her previous fantasies. Lighter grey streaks were mixed into his dark grey hair. Still, he was not unbecoming.

He began to walk toward her, cautiously, as though he was afraid that he would blink and she’d be gone.

For her part, Sansa had lost total control over her body. She couldn’t have moved if she wanted to. Which she did. Maybe.

He got quite close before he stopped. Sansa shivered as she felt his eyes sweep from her face down her arm to her hand—when he took a sudden, sharp breath and shook his head. He gently took the fork that she didn’t realize she was still holding in her hand.

Fear shot through Sansa’s entire body. _He’s really real. This is not a drill!_

The strange man placed the fork on the table and said, “You mustn’t eat ravioli in Venice.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir.”

He had the strangest facial expressions: the way he was looking at her now reminded her of the sad way her mother had sometimes looked at Robb right after he’d become Earl.

He took her hand and Sansa didn’t like how quickly his expression turned to amusement when she tried to shrink away.

“You must let me take you to a proper dinner. Please, let me show you what my city can do.”

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. Politeness was going to save her again. “You’re so kind, sir, and I’m sure it would be lovely, but it wouldn’t be proper to leave—”

A €100 note seemed to materialize out of nowhere . Before Sansa could react, he had put the bill on the table and swept her coat and purse off the other chair.

He held her chair as she stood up. She couldn’t help but tremble a little as he wrapped her coat around her.

The waiter had come back out.

“Excuse me, miss, what—”

The man turned around and just _looked_ at him. The waiter cast his eyes down, said something in Italian, and went back inside.

 _He is_ dangerous _, Sansa. Ask the waiter for help. Just eat the ravioli, for pity’s sake._

She tried, but speech failed her again as the strange man led her toward a narrow alley that was so very dark.

Sansa had to follow slightly behind him because they couldn’t fit walking abreast. Rationally, she knew the buildings were only a few stories, but the eerie streetlights and the inky blackness of the sky elongated them to the point where they seemed to curve inward, as though they would make her disappear. With him.

He wordlessly moved her through a bizarre, disorienting warren of alleys and little cortiles, each one more ghostly and quiet than the last. Sansa had no clue where she was or if he had any intention of taking her to this so-called “proper dinner.” And gods, it was like the city was empty. She could scream, but these old buildings and fountains would just laugh.

Sansa was fully aware that if this was one of her trashy ID Discovery Channel shows, this would be about the part where he did something unspeakable to her and then dumped her in that dark water. And yet, for all his danger, she was certain that wouldn’t be her fate.

They turned down another alley, one with plenty of lights highlighting some humble facades. She was surprised when he stopped.  

“Siamo arrivati,” he said.

Sansa would have totally missed that there was a nice restaurant here. It looked more than a bit humble from the outside, but one look at the patrons told Sansa this was no little neighborhood place. A well-dressed man came out and warmly greeted her escort—from the way they chatted as though she wasn’t there, she assumed he must be the owner. After what seemed like some time, the owner said something to her that she didn’t understand, so she just nodded politely and said, “Grazie.”

“Oh, pardon me, Miss, all I had said is that I hope you will enjoy your meal.”

“I am sure I will, ah—” Sansa had to hesitate for a moment because he had still not told her his name, “he has told me this is a proper Venetian restaurant.” The stranger and the owner exchanged approving nods.

As she settled into her chair and looked at the beautiful linen and silver (to say nothing of the food the other diners were enjoying), she had to admit that this really did seem like a nice place.

That seemed like a good place to start conversation. “I think I’ll enjoy this much more than my ravioli.”

“I would bet my entire fortune on it,” he replied. After a pause, he added, “Do you ever intend on asking my name?”

“I—it seemed…”

“Petyr. Petyr Baelish.”

“I am Sansa,” she replied. He noted her unwillingness to give her last name, but did not press.

He bowed his head toward her. “A striking name for a striking woman.”

She smiled and found herself blushing and looking down.

“Are you enjoying your first visit to Venice?”

“It’s lovely, Mr. Baelish—”

“Please, do an old man a blessing and call me Petyr.”

Sansa had to struggle to keep a straight face because the owner, who was bringing over the wine, had overheard this entreaty and stifled a surprised laugh, as though he had never thought he would hear such a thing in his life.

Whatever momentum had built in the conversation was lost. Sansa sipped her wine to fill the silence. It was good wine. She wondered why he wouldn’t talk. She wondered why he seemed so completely pleased just to sit there with her.

_For pity’s sake, what is wrong with you? Arya doesn’t call you the Queen of Small Talk for nothing. Think!_

Finally, she remembered that he had referred to Venice as “his” city earlier.

“Do you live in Venice, Petyr?”

“Yes and no,” he said, as two plates of food came out. Sansa hadn’t remembered ordering.

“Forgive me, I did order for us when we walked in. I hope you don’t mind.”

Sansa privately thought that it was old-fashioned in kind of a controlling way when men ordered for women, but, of course, she politely said, “I’m sure you know the best dishes. Like our—”

She shot her eyes up and looked at him hard.

“Perhaps I spoke too harshly when I said one mustn’t _ever_ eat ravioli in Venice, Sansa, but come now. Look at this and compare it with what you were presented with earlier.”

She scowled at him. He was right, but she didn’t have to like it. She cut through a raviolo with her fork. She could tell it was going to taste really good.

It tasted better. She wouldn’t have ever though to combine citrus and scallops, but that was why she didn’t cook at an expensive restaurant for a living.

It wasn’t just tasty—it was pleasurable. She smiled.

“Good,” he said, almost in a whisper. He was giving her one of those funny looks again, as though the fact that she was pleased was his only accomplishment that had ever mattered in the world.

Sansa knew she should be appalled: an old man treating her this way because she was pretty. So much for the supposed solidarity she professed to share with all her sad, lonely, single sisters.

She _really_ knew she shouldn’t feel like she _deserved_ to be treated this way. She tried so hard not to be a spoiled and arrogant girl, to be more of a good, meaningful woman like Arya, she really, really did.

But the food tasted so good. And the atmosphere was so exclusive. And his mixture of age and power and looks was so heady. And his eyes looked so green.

They shared a natural pause in eating, so Sansa asked him again about living in Venice.

“Well,” he began, “as you can tell from my accent, I did not grow up here, or, at the very least, I did not grow up speaking Italian. But, my family has had business concerns in Venice for centuries, going back to the days even before Enrico Dandalo, or so we say. Somewhere along the way, an impoverished noble family married a spare daughter off to my great-great-something grandfather. Alas for her, to fall from the patrician class to the mere wife of a foreign-ish merchant. But, that paved the way for the Baelishes to acquire some additional property in Venice, some of which I still own today.”

He paused for the fish course to be presented before continuing. “My father wanted to be in London, and so that’s where I was born and educated. However, I would usually spend summers and holidays here. You were wise to come in winter.”

“Eat!” said Sansa, “it’s unbelievably good, but it might get cold.”

The rest of the meal passed in a similar fashion. Sansa shared almost nothing and let him talk about his work. She was shocked by how late it was when he put her coat around her again.

After a lengthy farewell to the owner (which included Sansa begging him to give all her praise to the chef), they emerged again into a surprisingly chilly night.

“It will be foggy tomorrow. That’ll be a pretty sight.”

Sansa imagined it would.

“Will you walk with me some more.”

“Of course.”

Again, she was completely at his mercy: the city was wondrous, but also incredibly disorienting in the dark. If it were foggy, she’d feel like she was the star of a film noir. She kept a tight hold of his arm, whose musculature was as pleasing to her in real life as it had been in her fantasies.

They emerged into one campo that looked rather like all the others, which is why she was surprised when he came to a halt.

“Stay there,” he said, as he backed up a few steps. He stayed there for a moment, and then walked back to her, looking as though he were on the verge of tears. At first, all he could do was stroke her cheek. Eventually, he was able to talk.

“Sansa, my city is the most beautiful city that has ever existed on this earth, but it is dying, under assault from the hordes who pour in from the train station and the cruise terminal and who knows where else. I hate them, Sansa, really I do. I am a merchant. I know and sell beauty, and their mediocre ugliness, their bad taste that has destroyed so many artists and craftsmen of worth in this city—these things haunt me.”

Sansa nodded politely.

“But then on a nondescript winter night, I find _you,_ just sitting there, the only woman I have ever seen who is truly worthy of this city’s beauty, acting as though you were no more special and precious than any of these idiots who think they’re stars because they’ve tottered down a tacky gangway in polyester sequins.”

Sansa smiled and found herself once again unable to speak, this time because she was moved by his sincerity.

He kept on stroking her cheek as he murmured, “You know you are beautiful, yes?”

She nodded. There was no use in lying.

“Then why don’t you take what is yours?”

Sansa shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Pleasure.” The word fluttered against her skin just like Sansa’s heart was fluttering in her chest. Her whole body tensed up.

“Are you afraid? Of pleasure?”

Sansa was frozen.

Petyr nodded as though he understood. He led her toward a darkened passageway—the sign above it said “sotoportego.” It was dark, almost like a tunnel. She liked the security, liked feeling safe from prying eyes.

So she stopped, and gently pulled him toward her. His eyes widened and a greedy look flashed over his face, but when she tensed again, he blinked it away and merely resumed stroking her cheek. Sansa noted that it didn’t take long for his fingers to explore just a little more—down her neck and to her collarbone.

She gulped and closed her eyes. She felt him press closer, pinning her between himself and the brick wall.

His lips were by her ears.

“It feels good?”

Sansa could only respond with a breathy “Yes.”

He dragged his lips down her jawline, and even though she didn’t think she should, Sansa couldn’t stop herself from arching her head back, opening her neck.

She was horrified when she realized she was rhythmically rocking, pressing herself into him. She moved back, trying to press herself into the wall.

“Petyr, I—”

He placed a finger over her lips. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m no Puritan. I won’t think you’re a bad girl for liking this. Because you do, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“If I were to be especially, unspeakably wicked and move a hand under that skirt and caress you in, ah, certain places, what might I find?”

Sansa’s brain almost shut itself down. She could not believe what she was hearing. Or that her body, which had apparently gone rogue, had pressed into him. They were outside, for pity’s sake!

“I think you like that idea, Sansa.”

She bit her lip.

Petyr started moving his hand up her leg. “I won’t make you admit it. You do have to tell me if you want me to stop, but we both know you don’t want that.”

Sansa’s body began to convulse again, but she couldn’t say anything. Had words ever failed her as thoroughly as they did on this night?

Her inner monologue was frantic. _Oh gods, his hand isn’t stopping. Oh gods, he’s going to find out—_

He brushed a finger against the front of her panties and she rocked so violently that he had to steady her.

“What kind of stupid men have you surrounded yourself with” he growled into her ear, “who have so utterly failed to appreciate you that even the slightest touch excites you that much. Goodness, what will you do when I do this?”

As he said it, he pushed the crotch of her panties to the side and the full truth of Sansa’s arousal was laid bare. His fingers were just gliding all over her. She didn’t even know it was possible to be this wet.

He was building her up with slow, long strokes, inviting her hips to roll in rhythm with him. It was so good. It was so, so, so good. She wanted more, but—

_No._

She tried to stop herself. This was wrong. She shouldn’t be doing this. Women like her shouldn’t be doing this. This was silly. This was only going to lead to disappointment and she would not only still be lonely when she left Venice, but she’d also know what she was missing.

Petyr obviously noticed her sudden reticence, because he began to quicken his strokes and, despite her mind screaming at her, her body began to respond again.

She opened her eyes for a moment to see him kissing her shoulder again. She’d made her legs wider and was kind of clawing up and down his shoulders and back. She had no idea how long she’d been doing that.

He looked up from her shoulder and smiled so sweetly when he saw her looking at him. He mouthed, “Are you ready?”

She knew what he meant, and she mouthed back “Yes” anyway.

She shuddered as he gently pressed a finger inside her. She could feel herself squeezing—little, fluttering things—and she felt a warmth she hadn’t felt in a very long time. She felt a second finger, and her body became more insistent. She didn’t even know who she was right now.

Petyr was saying the most amazing things to her.

“You like this, Sansa. I won’t ever make you admit it, but you do. And it makes me so happy.”

Sansa replied by practically _grinding_ against him. She could feel herself blush in shame.

“Sansa,” said Petyr, “I’m going to make you come now. You’re going to come for me, and it will be wonderful.”

He was right. She was going to come for him, in this hidden outdoor passage in this deserted campo in this dying city. His fingers were moving so quickly, building more and more pressure and tension that would—

She jerked forward so violently that she nearly knocked them both over. She cried out into Petyr’s shoulder, immediately praying that no one else would hear. As her body came down from its high, she practically collapsed into him.

She had no idea how long it was before she peeled herself off of him. He stared at her as though he had seen God. Then, he reverently kissed her lips and stroked her cheek.

Sansa took a moment to try and rationally recount everything that had happened in the last few hours or so. She’d let a strange man—whom she had never met before, but had definitely fantasized about on the flight over—lead her away from an untouched dinner, take her to an entirely separate dinner, walk her around a city she didn’t know, and stroke her to orgasm outside and in public.

 _Oh, was that all?_ asked the nagging voice inside her head.

Yes, it was time to extricate and go debrief with Marg and figure out what the fucking fuck she should do next. She started to dig out her usual polite excuses.

“It’s so late! I should get back—I’ve kept you—They’ll wonder—”

Petyr laughed and then silenced her with another kiss. When he had broken away, Sansa saw his eyes were full of the desire to _possess._

“Oh Sweetling,” he said, “you and I have only just begun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The particular bad restaurant from the beginning does not exist in real life. The good restaurant most assuredly does.


	2. The Assignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr takes Sansa to his apartment, and he is determined to bring out the beast within.

Petyr led Sansa up through a passage of uneven marble steps that had been pitted by centuries of unceasing dampness. Part of her wished she would slip on the steps. If she slipped, then all this would stop and she wouldn’t ruin the evening.

Alas, Petyr’s arm was steady. Sansa tracked the scattered groups of tesserae that faintly glinted on the walls, trying to distract herself. The air in the passage was frigid and ancient, full of the accumulated dust of centuries of struggle and glory and decline. She coughed, which made Petyr pull her in closer.

“Old family seats are not quite as romantic as most people think they are,” said Petyr, as he began the process of opening one of those old wooden doors with the multi-turn locks that Sansa never could work right.

Sansa gave the door a haughty look. “No, they’re not.”

Petyr looked at her, a bit perplexed.

“Old family seats,” said Sansa, still staring straight ahead, almost as if though he wasn’t there. “Sometimes they don’t seem worth the trouble.”

Without responding, Petyr pulled the creaking door back and gently moved her inside. It was dark.

“Forgive me, I must ask you to wait here for a moment.”

Sansa considered making a break for it, but in that moment she realized the very real possibility of falling down the stairs was actually more frightening than what might be coming. After a few moments, the apartment started to fill with dim light. Sansa was standing in an antechamber and all she could see was a great silver wall upon which were projected the shadows of manifold objects. As she reluctantly took off her coat and shoes, she was trying to figure out what was on the other side when she was struck by the smell of a cathedral.

Petyr reappeared, almost entirely obscured by shadows except for his molten eyes. He offered his hand without so much as a “please.”

The silver on the wall scattered onto the floor, which was covered in thick Persian rugs woven only in shades of ivory and grey. Silver censers poured frankincense and opoponax into the air and standing lamps provided just enough illumination. The other walls were covered in plush drapes of dark green velvet, and there was something queer about the glass in the windows, most of which were partially obscured stone.

The shadowy objects had been sculptures. There were Roman busts, small Egyptian objects in sandstone, craggy sections of inscriptions in alphabets Sansa did not recognize, religious statues of gods from the Hindu pantheon, an Aztec dragon, and so much more.

The room seemed so incongruous with the man, whose sole foppish indulgence had seemed to be a love of ties.

It was like he could read her mind. “By my calculation, Sweetling, the ostentatiousness of parvenu merchant families like mine seems to decrease about a degree per century. The urge is still stronger than I’d like, but I’m now able to keep it all behind four walls.” Apparently he found this hilarious, as he laughed. Sansa might have laughed too, if she wasn’t full of dread.

“You should see some of the sketches we have of this room. The long walls used to be covered in cloth-of-gold that had to be frequently replaced because my great-great-something grandfather liked to have actual torches on the wall. How we didn’t burn the entire campo, I’ll never know.”

Sansa willed herself to find a compliment. She settled on, “Everything looks so fine and soft.”

He gave her such a wicked look and she was struck with fear—not fear of him, but fear of something primordial that she couldn’t quite pin down. She was aware that her breath had become shallow.

Petyr guided her carefully through the room, making sure she didn’t so much as graze her skin on any of the stone. The pile of the rugs was so thick and soft between her toes and the incense somehow seemed to promise sanctification and corruption all at once.

They were only a few steps from a door when Sansa realized he was taking her to his bedroom. Of course he was. What else would he be doing? She slowed her steps, because she was afraid, but it was no use. He led her on.

Sansa didn’t know why she was even remotely surprised to see the bed from her dream in his room. What had he said to her then? _It will feel so good…_

Petyr put his hand on her hip, startling her back into the moment. Sansa figured that there was no going back now, so she put her arms around his neck and leaned back, inviting him to push her into his bed.

She was about to tell him to be careful with her clothes, but he undid the zipper on her skirt so gently and slowly she realized there was no need. As they undressed one another, Petyr quickly asked her the necessary questions about birth control (bless her IUD) so that, by the time they were both fully nude, they could focus on more indulgent things.

Sansa liked his body very much, which gave her some hope that she might not ruin things this time. Petyr was healthy and looked youthful for his age. He appeared to have perfectly average endowment, which was _just fine_ as far as Sansa was concerned. His only so-called flaw was a strange and very obvious scar that ran down his torso. She imagined he was probably a bit nervous about it, so she knew it was her duty to reassure him.  
  
“That scar’s kind of hot,” she said. “You might be more dangerous than I thought. How—”

Petyr chuckled and put a finger to her lips. “Leave it to your imagination, Sweetling.” And, before she could protest, he kissed her.

Given how insistent he had been outside, Sansa was a little surprised—but not displeased—by how slow and gentle he was with his kisses and touches. She was a lady, after all, and ladies liked slow, gentle men.

Sansa was not usually a big talker in bed (as if she had so much experience!), and Petyr didn’t seem to be either. This was good. It was a chance to let the nice kisses and gentle caresses of her neck and her breasts roll over her like the gentle currents that surrounded them outside.

Perhaps there was no reason to fear.

Or—

Petyr cautiously moved his hand down toward Sansa's thighs and she tensed up, narrowing her legs for the briefest moment. She corrected herself almost immediately and began frantically kissing the line of his jawbones in order to convince him that he had just imagined her hesitation.

Sansa didn’t understand why this was happening. It almost _always_ happened. She really did want sexual release and physical pleasure, but her body always seemed to retract, like a crab into its shell, just when it should be getting more excited. This even happened when she tried to pleasure herself, and by the Gods, it _did_ make her frustrated. She couldn’t imagine what it did to her partners. She began searching for a solution, knowing she didn’t have much time.  

She saw his tie on the floor and grabbed it. This always worked. She’d just bat her eyes and beg in a soft voice to be tied up. In her experience, men loved the idea of Tied Up Sansa so much that they fucked that fantasy instead, forgetting that the real Sansa was even there.

She slid the tie up his back, preparing to make her move.

Petyr brought his ministrations to a halt and yanked the tie away with unexpected force.

“ _No,_ Sweetling. That trick may work with less observant men, but I’m not going to let you off the hook that easily. If you want to leave, leave. Don’t ask me to tie you up so that you convince yourself that staying isn’t what _you_ want.”

Sansa opened her mouth to say something, but all she could produce was wordless indignation.

He moved in close, his lips oh-so-close to hers. “I need you to want this. I need you to enjoy it.”

Sansa would have expected the eyes of a man saying such a thing to be filled with tenderness, but his had only avarice.

She knew she should be afraid. She knew she could leave. But she didn’t want to, and she needed to figure out why.

“Petyr…”

He slid down next to her, slinking an arm around her, tapping his fingers on her back. After a few moments, he spoke.

“Sansa, you must answer me something.”

She nodded.

“ _Is_ this…?”

“Yes,” said Sansa. “I want it so much. I liked what we did outside, even though it was so naughty, and I don’t know what’s wrong and why my body is hesitating, but I do, I _do_ want it, Petyr.” She didn’t know if she was flushed because he was holding her close or for some other reason.

He laughed at her again, and ran his fingers through her hair. “Sansa, you’ll never get what you want if you don’t admit what you are. I don’t know why you want the world to pass its eyes over you, to think of you as plain, but it’s clear you do, with your primly arranged hair and your conservative clothes in plain colors. Sadly, I think you’re the only one who’s truly bought into your own subterfuge, Sweetling.”

He drew his finger across her cheek and kissed her gently.

“Your false, submissive, cowering courtesy cannot conceal the powerful and imperialistic energy of your body, the regal way you carry yourself, and the cleverness in your eyes. Oh, I’m sure that, once upon a time, you had good reason for using submissiveness as a weapon, but I think you’ve forgotten yourself.”

“Why do you care?” asked Sansa.

“I told you before. I love my beautiful, beautiful city. My noble city. My powerful city. My clever city. My dying city. Since I was a boy I have fantasized about the days when Venice’s _calli_ were teeming with the aristocratic, the obscenely wealthy, the beautiful—the magnificent beasts of humanity. I am no such man, and neither are the sad remnants of the great families who still live in tucked away corners here and there.

“I am a solitary, dissatisfied man who put that, and many other boyish dreams, away and believed my teachers, who told me that the magnificent beasts could only be found in histories. And then I saw you, and I realized they were _liars._

“I want to see you blaze across the piazza, parade in all your nobility down even the humblest _ramo,_ and float down the Grand Canal in a decorated barge, arms outstretched like a human divinity. I want to see you in all your magnificent, beastly sublimity and cupidity. I want my fantasies to come to life.”

Sansa knew she should be appalled. But, she was intrigued, which, she realized, threatened to suggest there was truth in his words.

“When I saw you, I knew I had to release that magnificent beast, to free you from that prison of submission. I decided I would spoil you and give you every pleasure. So, I gave you a nice meal, good wine, a gentle little warm-up orgasm, took you back to my apartment full of expensive, soft things to delight you, and hoped the final gift—”

Sansa didn’t know which of them was more surprised by her spontaneity. She pushed _him_ back into the bed and clumsily covered his mouth with her own. Eventually, she started peppering his neck and shoulders with kisses (again). He lay still, murmuring his approval and letting her do whatever she wanted.

Eventually she sat up, still straddling him. She did love the way he looked at her body, to say nothing of the way he reverently touched her.

“Mmmm, Sweetling, would you like to be on top? Would that make it better for you?”

Sansa swooped down, and this time it was her turn to whisper against his lips.

“Are you always in the habit of making a woman _work_ for her pleasure, Mr. Baelish?” _Why didn’t this feel as alien as it should?_

He forcefully flipped her over and wasted no time getting a hand between her legs. She was wet again, almost like she had been outside.

He smiled at her—the warmest smile she’d seen from him all night.

“You’re perfect, Sansa. Perfect.”

He kissed her again to keep her from protesting. She began to buckle and grind just a little against his fingers, which were still just rubbing and pressing, nothing more.

When he was about to put a finger inside her, she objected. “No fingers, Petyr. I want _you_ inside me. Now.”

“As my lady wishes.”

Sansa had to admire his skill: he wasted no time pushing inside her, but the act didn’t feel desperate or callous. He was starting to build a rhythm and figuring out how he wanted to use his hands and tongue.

But hands and tongue could be gentle. Sansa was trying to embrace something else. So, again, much to their shared surprise, she snarled, “Harder, Petyr. _Deeper._ ”

“Why do you want me to go deeper?” he asked, just on the verge of mocking her.

Sansa got close to his ear and whispered in the softest voice she could manage:

“Because I am a beast and I want to devour you.” _It’s true,_ she thought to herself. _Oh Gods, is this really what I am?_

Petyr’s lips broke out into a grin on her shoulder and he started kissing her neck again.

“Just like that, _just like that,”_ said Sansa. She didn’t know it was possible to sound commanding while having one’s breath taken away because of sensory overload. It was hard to balance the sensation of him inside her with the feel of his hand on her breast and his lips on her neck. She realized she was getting close and could feel herself mentally pulling away from the heat and tension building inside her—not out of fear, but because the intensity was overwhelming.

Petyr picked up on this—somehow—rather seamlessly. He threaded his hand behind her head and angled her head up in tantalizingly rough fashion so she had to look into his eyes, had to be there in the moment with him. His other hand grasped her lower back, keeping their sweating, pulsing bodies in perfect contact.

With each thrust he ground against her, heightening the sensations, which were already nigh-on unbearable. Sansa realized she was about to have the type of orgasm that she had read about, that she had dreamed about, that changed a woman.

Petyr brought her back into the moment.

“You’re close?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she whispered back.

Another thrust.

“You’re a lust-ridden little thing, aren’t you, Sansa?” His voice was louder and rougher.

“Yes.” _Her_ voice was louder and rougher.

Yet another thrust. Her hips rose, desperately chasing, dangerously wanting.

“You’re greedy, so _greedy,_ aren’t you, Sansa?” Louder. Rougher.

“Yes!” Rougher. Louder. 

They both thrusted. It was starting, oh Gods, it was starting!

“You want all the pleasure, only pleasure, all the time, don’t you, Sansa?” Softer again, but commanding and menacing in the sexiest way.

“Yes!” She had to cry out. She was coming undone.

One last thrust. One last question.

“You want me to worship you, don’t you, Sansa?”

“Yes, _yes, YES!_ ” She was screaming and convulsing, completely flooded over.

It took some time for her body to become still again. She leaned back into the soft pillow and gave Petyr, who was still gently kissing her breasts, a drowsy smile. The air, still deliciously perfumed, cooled the sweat on her neck and shoulders.

For the first time she could ever remember, Sansa Stark let out a contented sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who bookmarked and subscribed to this, I'm so sorry it took me a long time to update. Life happened, as it does, and this was a bit harder for me to write. I appreciate your patience.
> 
> In terms of allusions and other creative debts, the biggest one is to Edgar Allen Poe. The title of this chapter and the description of Petyr's apartment are heavily indebted to his short story "The Assignation." There are also obviously a few callbacks to show dialogue here, and even though I wanted to delete them after the disaster of season 8, I decided not to act in haste.
> 
> There are also passing references to things from Plato and Nietzsche because...well, I don't really know why. Not sure if those types of references will continue or not.


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